let's get this bread
by sarsaparillia
Summary: Lady Trevelyan has a cat. Cullen does not like the cat. This matters very little, because, in true feline form, the cat likes Cullen. — templar!au coda; Evelyn/Cullen.


**disclaimer**: disclaimed.  
**dedication**: to laure and emily.  
**notes**: this came out of two separate conversations and i am so _sorry_  
**notes2**: bread the cat is here to destroy humanity's hubris and also be my favourite plot device

**title**: let's get this bread  
**summary**: Lady Trevelyan has a cat. Cullen does not like the cat. This matters very little, because, in true feline form, the cat likes Cullen. — templar!au coda; Evelyn/Cullen.

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"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I know he's not supposed to be in here—"

"It's alright," Cullen says, trying very desperately not to look at the cat fur that's settled on top of his tea. "But please, remove him?"

The cat. The _cat_. He's an orange tabby, more lard than fur, with a horrible squashed face and an uncanny proclivity for rolling all over Cullen's paperwork right in the middle of the ink drying. He is perpetually cranky, enjoys sharpening his claws on Cullen's bedclothes, and purrs like a snoring Orlesian with a broken nose and three missing teeth. He is, essentially, a small dragon, and he has laid claim to Cullen's office like it is the only hoard he cares to have.

The cat is called Bread.

And he belongs to Lady Evelyn Trevelyan, and _that_ is the problem.

—

**one**.

The first few times, Cullen removed the cat from his office himself.

After the fifth time, this had become tiresome and more time-consuming that he'd thought possible, and so Cullen enlisted Scout Harding to remove the cat. Scout Harding took one look at the cat, laughed like a loon, and flounced away without actually helping at all. Cullen still does not understand what was so funny; he has _also_ still not forgiven Scout Harding for leaving him in his time of need.

Scout Charter is _far_ more reliable.

"You know," the slim elven spy had remarked, the seventh time Cullen had summoned her to his quarters to de-feline it, "You might want to tell Lady Trevelyan to come get her cat. She'd be happy to do it; 'Draste knows, she loves this little bugger."

Cullen had coughed up half a lung in his haste to answer her. "I-I'm sorry. Lady Trevelyan?"

"The mage, yeah. Evelyn? He's hers."

And that, well.

That had been _something_, hadn't it.

Lady Evelyn Trevelyan is not the most beautiful woman Cullen has ever met.

In the grand scheme of things, she is, in fact, only pretty. She's neither short nor tall; a fairly pale complexion that would freckle if it saw any sun, delicate wrist-bones oft tucked into the cuffs of the robes of a Harrowed mage. She's prone to long periods of intense stillness, and her eyes are a blue so dark that they're almost the colour of fresh ink, a storm at midnight. Her most distinctive feature is the rather spectacular amount of tawny-gold hair she keeps braided back from her face, and the fact that she is always clutching a book to her chest.

Pretty, yes.

Beautiful? No, not really.

But there is something _magnetic_ about her, Cullen finds. He's a bit hapless about it, really. The way she shoves her wild hair out of her face as she aims to collect that demon cat of hers, huffing her irritation, is the most interesting thing he's ever seen in his life. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, desperate to figure out why he can't stop _looking_ at her.

"Bread," she hisses through her teeth, "_Breadsticks_, you little rat, how many times have I told you, you have to stop sneaking in here!"

Bread, in all his magnanimous wisdom, does not pay his mistress any mind and continues to contentedly purr the roof down from exactly where he is, which is under the rather ridiculous armoire in the corner. He'll not be leaving any time soon, either; he's wedged himself right and proper in the very back, where neither Cullen nor Lady Trevelyan can reach.

Lady Trevelyan covers her face with her hands. "I am—I am _so sorry_ about him, Commander."

Cullen shrugs a little helplessly. Her cat is a demon. He is _pretty positive_ that her cat is an actual, real, possessed-in-the-body-and-the-soul demon. He just can't yet _prove_ it. "Would you like to have tea while we wait?"

"I'd love that, thanks," Lady Trevelyan says, shoulders slumping a little, relief pooling on her features. "He'll come out when he gets hungry. It shouldn't be too long."

Scout Charter had been right, Cullen reflects.

Lady Trevelyan _does_ love the little bugger.

Cullen always has tea in his office. It's a holdover from Mia, actually—his older sister is a great many things, but good at comfort she is not; her sense of comfort extends to offering a hot beverage and hoping desperately that whoever is upset doesn't caterwaul all over her—and she'd always had the kettle on to boil and a pinch of expensive Rivaini leaves for the cold bad days before Cullen had gone to the Order. He's kept the habit, though he doesn't entirely know why.

It reminds him of home.

Maybe that's enough.

Lady Trevelyan has already come round to sit on the edge of Cullen's desk. The first few times she'd stood stock still, shifting her weight back and forth a little uncomfortably, as though she'd been unsure of her welcome.

But that was then, and this is now, and it's not as though the sight of her isn't the highlight of Cullen's _week_. He's not about to tell her that, though; she'd likely never come back. She might even start sending her twin in her stead, and that would be _mortifying_.

There are some things Cullen is not willing to risk.

And this careful sweet thing is still too fragile.

(Not to mention that Alistair would never, ever allow Cullen to live it down with any kind of grace. Not to mention that Lady Trevelyan is so far outside of his realm of possibilities that she might as well be starlight. Not to mention that Cullen has a habit of breaking the things he touches, even when he doesn't mean to. _Especially_ when he doesn't mean to, and he doesn't think he would survive the guilt of breaking Lady Trevelyan. Not her. Of all people, Maker, please, not her.)

Cullen likes making tea. His hands don't shake so much.

Three large lumps of sugar and a drop of cream in a glass tankard, stirred twice before he hands it over to her. Maker knows he's watched her make her own tea enough to know how to do it correctly. Cullen might not be excellent at a lot of things, but he _does_ know how to make tea.

Lady Trevelyan blinks at him, mouth slightly parted. "You—oh. Thank you."

"Is that not—right?" Cullen turns ruddy. "I thought you liked the sugar—"

"Oh, no, it's fine, it's perfect," she says, cutting him off before he manages the rest, as though she's a little startled by it herself. She pauses to sip, and a tiny, blinding shard of a smile breaks out across her face. "But I didn't realize—no one ever makes my tea right."

"Not even your sister?"

"No," Lady Trevelyan says, and the blinding smile turns soft and melancholy at the edges, just the way a long-healed heartbreak does. "Not even her."

Cullen holds his breath in his lungs, not daring to exhale. Lady Trevelyan's hair falls into her face, a wave of shimmering autumn wheat under a sunset, obscuring the nighttime indigo-blue of her eyes. It sticks in his throat, the wondering—what's she thinking about? What kind of broken-glass pieces are inside of her?

As much as he wants to ask, he knows he can't.

So he doesn't.

They drink their tea in silence.

And eventually, a cheerfully little "Mrrp?" cheeps out from beneath the armoire, and Bread comes trotting daintily out to _meow_ demandingly at his mistress' feet. For an orange ball of bur and fat, he is surprisingly delicate. Cullen hates him, absolutely petulant with it.

Lady Trevelyan laughs. It fills up the rafters. It fills up Cullen's lungs. She reaches down and swings the horrible creature up into her arms, kisses the top of his head between his ears. Bread is very smug. Cullen hates him _twice_, and also doesn't think he's ever going to be able to breathe again.

But still, the lady is glowing. "Thank you for the tea, Commander. I promise, I'll try to keep him out."

"It's—it's fine," says Cullen, even though it really isn't.

Lady Trevelyan is halfway out the door when she looks over her shoulder and shoots him a bright-eyed little grin. Half-limned in brilliant daylight, she's an unreal thing. Cullen near swallows his tongue.

"I'll see you later!"

And she's gone and the door is closing, and he still hasn't even said _goodbye_.

—

**two**.

"You are a ghastly creature," Cullen tells Bread, flatly.

The cat has ensconced himself on _top_ of the armoire, today. Every time Cullen reaches up to get the beast down, he's been swat for his trouble, and if he'd not been wearing the thick leather gloves he's taken to keeping on to keep the cold from the lyrium withdrawal at bay, he'd be bleeding for his trouble. Bread does not appreciate people who are not Lady Trevelyan touching him.

"Mrrprmm," purrs Bread, kneading at the wood.

Cullen is never going to have tea that does not have cat hair in it ever again. This is just his lot in life. And his lyrium kit has been sitting on the table for a quarter hour, untouched.

Maker, he's thirsty, too.

So, so thirsty.

But every time Cullen makes towards it, Bread does something deeply insulting like lick his nethers in Cullen's general direction, and then Cullen ends up so annoyed that the thirst disappears into thin air, and all he's left is irritated.

They are at an impasse.

The lyrium sings.

Cullen honestly can't hear it over the rough sound of Bread purring up a storm.

"I hate you," says Cullen, and reaches up to scratch the horrible creature under the chin.

—

**three**.

"He likes you," Lady Trevelyan smiles like a clear dawn.

Cullen stares despairingly at the cat. Bread has taken over his desk. He _desk_. Is nothing sacred? Is there nothing on the Maker's green earth that is going to remain untainted by fur? Will he ever be able to write another letter again without paw prints in ink all over it?

The world may never know.

"Commander? Are you listening to me? I told you, he likes you! See, he's purring, and he doesn't do that for just anyone! And you didn't believe me!"

(_I like you_, Cullen thinks at Lady Trevelyan. _I like _you_, and even if you cat annoys me to death, I'm going to put up with whatever I have to if it means you'll smile about it_.)

"I think he likes watching me suffer," Cullen says, just a little grumpy.

He is, in fact, fairly certain that Bread _does_ like to watch him suffer. The cat is a demon; that he enjoys watching Cullen struggle is the only explanation for the level of clear animosity between them. What kind of cat lolls all over a person's desk when the letter they're writing is still wet with ink? What kind of cat trots daintily in, demands to be fed, and then promptly _claws Cullen's curtains_ to shreds? What sort of cat has the _gall_? Maker's breath, it's half a miracle the damn thing hasn't found a way up to his bedroom, yet, because as soon as Bread manages to figure out how a ladder works, that will be the end of any peace Cullen has ever known.

Not that he's known a lot of peace, incidentally, but—

That's _not_ the point.

"He doesn't," says Lady Trevelyan, laughing just a little. "I think he thinks you need cheering up!"

Bread has jumped off Cullen's desk and found his way into her arms. Cullen has to fight desperately not to be irrationally envious of a _cat_. He watches her, for a moment; the Inquisitor has insisted that the entire contingent of her contemporaries will make the trek to the Western Approach. Josephine and Leliana will remain behind at Skyhold, but Alistair and Bethany will not; they leave at first light tomorrow.

Lady Trevelyan will likely go with them.

Cullen is, himself.

"Who's taking care of him, while we're gone?" is what Cullen blurts out, which is not at _all_ what he'd wanted to say. He'd wanted to ask her to sit and have a cup of tea with him; maybe ask what the Ostwick Circle was like. They've gotten that far before, and Ostwick seems about as safe a topic as Kirkwall is.

"Herah's said she will," Lady Trevelyan mouth ticks upwards. "Why? Are you worried about him?"

"Absolutely not," says Cullen, firmly. He crosses his arms over his chest in an attempt to not look _entirely_ pathetic. "I do not want him stuck and starving in here, he'll find a way to shred my sheets."

"Methinks thou doth protest too much," Lady Trevelyan bites down on her lip to hide the smile. "Admit it, you like him a little."

"Lady Trevelyan, he's—"

"Evelyn," she says, very softly.

"Pardon?"

"My name. It's Evelyn."

Cullen holds her name softly like a flower in his mouth. Evelyn. _Evelyn_. It tastes like her, somehow: electric-soft starlight and sweet strong tea over fresh ink. But it's too much, too soon, too familiar and too close and too—too _much_, he can't, he shouldn't, not when she's the way that she is, he doesn't deserve to—

Bread _yowls_.

The demon cat has either the worst timing or the best. Cullen can't entirely decide.

(Right now, he's leaning towards _the best_, because it means that Lady Trevelyan—Lady _Evelyn_—has taken her attention off of him just long enough to give him a moment to breathe. It's almost _kind_ of the awful thing, really.)

The cat struggles out of Lady Evelyn's arms, and comes to wind himself around Cullen's ankles. Bread's wheezing purr comes scratching out of his horrible squashed face, but he darts off and does his level best to attack his legs when Cullen bends down to tentatively pat his head. The momentum of it sends Cullen pitching forwards.

He manages to catch Lady Evelyn around the waist to keep from toppling over, but only just. Cullen turns several unnamed shades of crimson. It still takes him one second too long to release her; this close, he can see tiny fractures of silver sky in her eyes.

Lady Evelyn blinks at him. "Are you alright?"

In a single word: _shite_.

"Your cat is trying to kill me," Cullen succeeds in getting out, and his voice only cracks a little. She's very warm, the leather of her jerkin giving way beneath his hands. He's freezing all over. He thinks about anything, anything, anything else.

Lady Evelyn's palms curl into fists against his chest. She's blinking rapidly, a little shaky in the execution, but still—not unnerved. She doesn't entirely push him away. She just stays very still, motionless in his arms, looking up at him. When she speaks, her mouth barely moves.

"You know," she says, "I think you might be right."

—

**four**.

Cullen watches her cut her way through a horde of demons like it's nothing. The blade of golden light moves like it's a part of her, electricity crackling over her skin in purple-white arcs of magic. Lady Evelyn is Knight-Enchanter, and Cullen has never seen anyone wield their magic the way she does. She doesn't stop, doesn't slow, doesn't hesitate: she chases after the Lady Inquisitor, off into Void knows where.

He loses track of her, eventually; the demons take precedence. Cullen swings his shield up, but through the smoke and the burning, the orange of the flames looks just like—

Cullen huffs.

_Bloody, stupid_ cat.

—

**five**.

"I really am sorry," Lady Evelyn says, later. There is genuinely apology in her voice.

Bread has managed to shred his bedclothes.

Honestly, Cullen ought to have expected this. He ought to have expected that Lady Evelyn's horrible demon cat would get into his office while he was away; there is nothing in the world that can contain Bread's destruction. Of course, now that they've made it back and managed to keep the sky from falling in on itself, of _course_ one thing had to just—_be_ like this.

Of _course_.

Cullen takes a very slow, very deep breath.

It's not really anyone's fault.

(Bread is currently sitting in the middle of Cullen's bed, purring up a storm. He is a round ball of orange fur and lard and there are feathers in his mouth. There are feathers everywhere. It's a mess. Everything is a mess. Cullen is a mess, too. There's a strange kind of relief in in, in its acceptance. Everything is a mess. It could be worse. It's just… messiness.)

Cullen looks at Lady Evelyn.

She is still not the most beautiful woman Cullen has ever seen. She is still neither short nor tall, still mostly fair (though she has somehow accumulated a smattering of freckles, probably from all the sun in the Western Approach), still dark-eyed and bookish; she is still the woman that Cullen had met after the Conclave. Delicate wrists. Mage robes. Her most remarkable feature is _still_ the absolutely spectacular amount of tawny hair that hangs around her face.

Very little about her has changed.

But Cullen knows her, now, at least a little. She likes her tea unholy sweet and unholy dark. She is a terror on a battlefield. She smiles like a dawn sunrise, but she has never really had a friend. There are parts of her that she keeps careful in the centre of her chest that he hasn't learned about yet, for all that he _wants_ to.

She has a truly horrible cat called Bread.

And her name is Evelyn.

Maker, her name is Evelyn.

Cullen takes another deep breath. He gestures at his desk. He hasn't been entirely honest with her, either; the lyrium kit sits in its case beneath the false bottom of the left-hand drawer. Thirsty, always thirsty, no matter how much water he drinks. The lyrium used to crawl beneath his skin like poison; being rid of it is better.

But it's hard.

And he wants her to understand that, even it it's only a little.

"I'll clean up after," Cullen says. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

—

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_fin_.


End file.
